


At the Rooftop's Edge

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Bleeding Hearts, F/M, Sondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid





	At the Rooftop's Edge

It’s the roof of his father’s LA office, and this is exactly the sort of thing that they don’t talk about.  Wind in their hair, stars up above, the sounds of a party beneath their feet.  They don’t talk about the way he drapes his jacket over her shoulders, or the way she kicks her shoes off before she climbs onto the building’s edge and lets her stockings hang.  There are plenty of things they _do_ talk about, sure, but the way they move together is not one of those things.

“I don’t like that you sit up there,” he says.

“Would you rather I stand?” is her reply.

“A lot of things go wrong at the edge of rooftops,” he says.

“Are you telling me that Gordon Tracy is afraid of heights?”

She slaps the concrete at her side, but she doesn’t need to.  The dare is enough to get him grumbling in her direction.  “Afraid of heights.  As if,” he mutters.  “Y’know, I am a pilot, just in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Of course, darling.”

“Just because I didn’t go to West Point…”

“No need,” she says, and she leans her head on his shoulder.  He’s all crossed arms and pouty lips, wrapped up in a neat suit with a floral print pocket square.  “Your skill is far greater than anything they could have offered you.  Crumby little school like West Point—waste of your time.”

“Waste of my time,” he agrees.  “I’m glad you and I are on the same page, Pen.  See, some people just see the sub license and think that’s it.”

“Fools, really.”

“ _Total_ fools,” he repeats.  “’Cause that’s the thing about me.  I’m Transformers More Than Meets The Eye—hey, what’s the word?  That one you like so much?”

“You know the word.”

“Multifaceted,” he says.  “S’a good word.  I like it.  I’m multifaceted, Pen.”

“Well, you are certainly something.”

They don’t talk about it—the way her fingers fiddle with his or the way sheer black stockings tangle with shining leather loafers at the edge of the world.  So much goes unsaid between them, but nothing goes uncertain.  When they’re up here, together, the stars are at an arm’s length and the universe doesn’t feel so big.  “So what are you afraid of, then?”

“What?”

She pulls her knees up to her chest, effortlessly graceful as she begins to stand on the rooftop’s edge.  “Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t hear me,” she says, and he watches her balance—balance along the world’s tallest beam, as if the fall couldn’t kill her.  “You say you’re not afraid of heights, so what is it?  What makes Gordon Tracy shake in his shoes?”

“Well, I’ve got to tell ya, I’m not especially fond of watching pretty girls dance across the edge of buildings.”

Because she _is_ dancing, even without any music.  The city sings a sweet melody in her ears as she steps, glides, _twirls._ One by one, she pulls the pins from her hair, big golden curls falling to her shoulders.   Moonlight gets all twisted up in the silk of her skirt, a vision in midnight blue, adorned in the warmth of his charcoal cashmere.  If Van Gogh could see her, he’d have no choice but to paint such a muse. “Oh, you’re not afraid of me.”

He laughs.  It’s a gruff, disbelieving sort of sound.  “Wanna bet?”

“Maybe you _should_  be afraid of me,” she allows.  “But you’re not.  I don’t buy that for one moment.”

“You sure got it all figured out, doncha Pen?”

“Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you still haven’t answered the question,” she says.  “It’s really not that hard.”

“Then you answer it,” he says.  “What are _you_ afraid of, if it’s so easy?”

She smiles, watching her own feet as she takes one step, two step, three, until she’s towering above him, tall and proud and confident.  She leans down to him, bending at the hip, maintaining perfect balance as she grows closer, closer, and they don’t talk about how easy it is, to be this close.  “What am I afraid of?” she says, bright blue eyes dancing between his own.

The word is little more than a breath.  “Yeah.”

They don’t talk about it.  Don’t mention the way his hair reeks of summer or the way his eyes wander down from blue eyes, to bright cheeks, to plump pink lips when she whispers the word, “Falling.”

He’s floating on the wind.  “Hmm?”

“Falling,” she says again.  “Absolutely terrified.  I have dreams at night—every night—that I’m just falling.”

She turns to look over the edge, waits for him to join her, smiles again.  There, leaning over the edge, she looks like she could fly.  “Maybe you shouldn’t go dancing on rooftops.”

“Oh no, darling,” she says, and she sits beside him, in that very same place she sat before.  She’s impossibly warm, curled up next to him, but he doesn’t say so.  “That’s precisely the reason I _should_.”

And they don’t talk about it, the way his stomach flips.  The way here words make him feel like he’s the one who’s falling, and falling _hard_ , and sooner or later he’s going to land breathlessly against the pavement.  

“Now then,” she says.  “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yes your turn, no cheating.”

“You’re gonna think I’m stupid.”

“I think you might be surprised by how infrequently I think of you as stupid.”  They don’t mention it when her arm loops through his, when she tugs him closer and his head falls in her lap.  “Which is not to say that it doesn’t happen, or even that it is a particularly rare occurrence—”

“Thanks—”

“What are you afraid of, Gordon?”

It’s been a very long day for her, and a much longer day for him.  Gordon’s gone from his uniform to his suit to his uniform and back again, all before midnight.  His hair is still damp with the Persian Gulf and they don’t talk about it, when she combs her fingers through it.  She feels his breaths against her leg, feels him yawn away the night.  It’s a long time before she feels the low rumble of his voice.  “Do you see all those cars out there?” he says.  “All those lights, all those buildings?”

She looks out across the city.  There are lights dancing against the stars, promoting the newest movie or the newest club or the newest Tuesday in Los Angeles.  It always amazes her, how late this city stays alive.  “Mhmm.”

“Isn’t it weird, knowing that those are all people?” he says.  “I mean, like, knowing that they’re _really_ people.  It’s one thing to know factually that someone’s in the car, but that person has a name.  They have a family.  They have a job and a hobby and a favorite color.  Isn’t that weird?”

And it is weird, in that strange disorienting way that’s fun to think about for brief moments at a time.  It’s the sort of thing that gets mentioned in passing, but she gets the impression that there’s nothing passing about this thought to Gordon.  “Very strange,” she agrees.

“You’re lying,” he says.  “That’s okay though.  That’s fine.  I get it.  But you wanna know what I’m afraid of, Pen?”

“Of course.”

He yawns again.  “I forget sometimes,” he says.  “That the cars are people.  I forget.  One of these days I’m going to forget when it’s really important that I don’t.  One of these days I’m going to forget that the person I’m saving is _really_ a person, and they’re not gonna make it home.”

And she doesn’t talk about how wrong he is, doesn’t talk about the boy whose fear holds the heart of the city, doesn’t talk about how fast she might fall, if she were to jump.  “They’re multifaceted,” she says.

“Multifaceted,” he mutters.

She’s got a hand in his hair, twisting and twirling.  He’s all laid out across the rooftop, the two of them listening to the sounds of distant car horns and even more distant parties.  “I wonder, Gordon.  Do you ever ask yourself,” she says, “if people forget about you?”

And as she waits for his response, she’s met only with the sound of a snore.  She won’t talk about it, the kiss she leaves behind on his head, the hour she spends, looking out at all the people in the city with Gordon Tracy asleep in her lap.  She won’t tell him about the way he makes her feel like she’s falling, and how she’s terrified, and how she loves it.

There are plenty of things they do talk about, sure, but the way they move together is not one of them.


End file.
